Painted Faces
by x Bout as Stable as the Wind x
Summary: Precious girl, you find honesty so significant, and yet spend your nights and your days painting countless masks for others to hide behind. Foolish boy, you trick everyone with your games of pretend but yourself. Yourself, and the pretend-painter herself. [Pan/OC, tw: self-harm, AU]


**tw: implied self-harm.**

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 _"_ _I live for the applause, applause, applause. Live for the applause-plause, live for the applause-plause. Live for the way that you're screaming, cheering for me. Applause. Applause._ _ **Applause**_ _." – Lady Gaga's_ Applause

Artificial golden light has the dust twinkling in the air, like fairy dust. It shimmers and shines down from the large, uncovered bulbs that bring about the effect, but disappear as soon as it touches the shadows. She's sure Peter would appreciate the simple but visually-pleasing illusion of it all. This entire place is about effects like that, after all.

Small brush glides over her palette easily, before being brought up to dance over pale flesh with the light touch of a feather. Her subject doesn't move; he never does. Eyes remain closed, back remains straight, posture remains cross-legged on a single stool no matter how long the task takes. Even if she pricks his eye or pokes a bit too hard near his nose, he'll give barely a flinch in response. It's like he loses himself completely, in some lifeless void between preparation and show.

She finds herself wondering often what thoughts he conjures up, to be able to drown in them so entirely and completely. But she never asks.

There is silence for the first several minutes that she spends seated before him, letting practiced fingers and soft bristled brushes bring life to his still face. The warm canvas is highlighted and contoured, cleansed of all blemishes and marks. She conceals every nook and cranny with a fine layer of _pretend_ as she sits before him, surrounded by racks of clothes and tables laden with various items and food. The large, square mirror to her right is bordered by those lightbulb hedges that bring the fairy dust to life all around them. Briefly, blue eyes flicker up, squinting against the light as she watches the dust drift about lazily in the room with no windows and too many boxes in the corner; brought back to focus only when she hears a smooth hum from her canvas.

"You've missed a spot." Even when he speaks, his features barely move, lips only parting a bit to allow the low, quiet voice to pass through. Immediately, Dominique looks turns back to the other, and finds his eyes still closed. He has yet to glance in the mirror.

"Shush," she returns, picking up her brush once more to finish the job. To finish burying the young man, and replace him with another, for the next few hours. A prince, a slave. A ghost, a demon. A god, a child. Dominique has not seen all of the hundreds of faces Peter has worn over the past several years, but she has been the hand behind many of the recent, better ones. A first-hand witness to his transfigurations. And she likes to think that because of her free access to the characters she crafts, that she's seen more of the boy behind them than most probably ever have. She's the one that hides away every imperfection and flaw from all eyes, except from his, and hers.

When she's finally done, she pulls away, and sets her instruments aside for a few minutes. Looks over the newly-born face before her for a moment with an even, trained gaze, lips in a simple line, before she finally folds her hands on her lap. "Done."

On cue, emerald eyes flash open, their familiar gaze washing over her as it always seems to do. It's always a bit strange; watching them close, and then reopen in a face that is not Peter's. But all she offers is that barely-there smile she always does as she waits for his comments. Peter stares at her for only a moment, before he turns to the mirror and tilts his head. Fixes dark-blonde locks that fall across his forehead slightly. Checks his clothing for any stains that might have fallen (there never are none, she doesn't know why he bothers to look each time), and then turns back to her. Nothing extreme this time, no blue shadow to turn the boy dead, or black liner to create the lines of demonic possession beneath his eyes. Tonight's task is just perfection; smooth skin and bright eyes. No unflattering angle to be found. The two once more stare at each other for a few more minutes, Dominique attempting to see through the mask she so entirely placed upon him; searching for the small scar near his forehead (she doesn't know what it's from), or the little mark on his jaw near his chin. It's her job; but she rather hates that these small pieces of him are nowhere to be found. It makes it too easy for him to hide.

Over the past few years she's worked with him, she's learned that perfect ways for him to hide are exactly what he is looking for; and exactly what he doesn't need.

Abruptly, the still scene is interrupted, by Peter unfolding long legs and sliding to his feet without warning. In fact, his sudden movement makes her jump slightly, blinking rapidly, and it draws a chuckle from deep within him as he fixes his cuffs and looks at her. "Staying for the show tonight?" he asks. No thank you; there never is any. At first, it had grated against her nerves to near unbearable levels – made worse by the fact that she could see right through the charm and the charisma that would blind any other that breathed the same air as he.

Time seems to have worn down those sharp edges and blades that the young man so often had drawn from her, because she doesn't bat an eye this time, and merely shakes her head. "No," she answers. It's always no. Shifts at the dingy, ill-lit diner across town is something to dread, but not to turn her nose up to when their coin is needed in her pocket. He seems to enjoy repetition, however (that too had irritated her to no end, until time had worked its magic and worn down those exasperated blades as well). She wonders if its queer, for her to spend every day of every week sitting before this other, preparing him for a game of pretend that she has never watched and maybe never will.

He's, of course, expecting that answer; the smile he flashes her is one for the cameras, nothing genuine about it. Everything that he does and speaks and says is a part of the character as soon as the makeup and effects are applied; its why she's never returned _that_ smile. "You don't know what you're missing out on," he returns, crossing the small dressing room to grasp the simple black vest that is waiting there for him, draped over there. It fits snugly over a torso already dressed up in a crisp and pressed white shirt, worn along with creaseless black trousers and shining shoes. "Your loss."

"I'll survive." She's standing as well now, pulling blonde strands that have come loose into her hands, and tucking them back into their ponytail. She turns to the counter set beneath the mirror, and begins to gather pallets and bottles and brushes and napkins, shoving it all into their appropriate pockets in a worn black-leather bag. She hears him moving behind her, ensuring every little detail is correct. Hears a voice come over through the small radio places on one of the corner tables in a burst of static, giving the five-minute warning. That is her cue to make her goodbyes, and when she turns, she finds him before his full-length mirror, messing with his hair once more. Catching her gaze over her shoulder, the flashy smile returns, and he clasps his hands behind his back without turning around. "There's a seat in the front row, you know, for all who help the cast," he reminds her.

Yes, she knows. She's peeked at that row before, filled with adults whose features are distorted with glitter and concealer and cakey-foundation. She's only a few years away from entering their age category and the very idea of sitting amongst them, with their too-long nails and neon pink ties, nearly makes her cringe. "Maybe next time," she answers, sliding the leather bag over her shoulder, and then snatching up the denim jacket that will go over a thin teal, sleeveless dress, worn but still draping over her slim figure perfectly.

They both know that the odds are, there will never be that alleged 'next time'; but Peter's smile never fades, and Dominique's answer never changes.

Dominique moves for the wooden door, and Peter follows; sliding in front of her to open it first. The brass knob squeaks beneath his fingers, and so do the hinges. Dominique steps out of the stuffy little dressing room, and into the cold, rather damp stone hallway that also has no windows; one end leading to the basement of the theatre, the other eventually holding the entryway to behind the stage. There are a few other doors, all of them closed, in the cement walls. Lightbulbs, these ones white, flicker above them.

Peter doesn't bother saying goodbye; he moves past her as soon as she steps out, heading down towards the long end of the hallway. Dominique's exit, however, is directly across Peter's dressing room, the black oak door bearing the four clearly-engraved words. They gape and call at her, but before she moves to leave, she bothers to turn around to look at his retreating back. "Don't forget to wash up before sleeping tonight," she reminds him, recalling mornings where she's come in to help them with the props, and finding a tired and/or hungover youth emerge from his sleeping quarters with different shaded powders smeared awkwardly across his cheeks and face. "It won't clean up well enough for tomorrow's scene if you don't."

Peter doesn't even stop in his steps when she bothers to advise him of this; but his pace does slow. Just enough for him to give her a half wave, showing that he's heard her, before he continues on. Just like in the other room, Dominique doesn't expect a thank you. At this point, barely expects verbal responses half the time, that are appropriate and genuine.

But this whole building and its atmosphere is all about one thing: the show. Dominique can practically hear everyone's watches ticking down, and she's learned to ignore it all (or most of it, at least). She pulls open the exit door, and descends the metal staircase that leads her to the street-level. The second door, the one that will take her outside, squeaks even louder than the other had; she blames it on the weather growing colder. The scene before her is a cobblestone street with a few horse-drawn carts moving down one lane, and then sleek and black-shelled cars making their way down another. With the horses are street vendors and market stands; and across from them, little shops with display windows that take up the whole wall. Painted yellow lines in the middle of the street clearly divide the elite from the lower class's side; and Dominique finds herself standing right in the middle of it. The theatre's position is placed ever so strategically, to draw the lower, to draw the upper. Even though she's at one of the side exits, she can see glimpses of the small crowd trying to come and get in to see the show – coming later for discounted prices.

Around the same time that Peter comes out through the curtain onto the stage, with its too-bright lights and mixed audience applauding away for the latest game of pretend, Dominique steps out of the building of illusions into the real world, pulling her jacket over her shoulder as a chilling breeze sweeps down the roads and alleys. Brown leaves blow up into gray skies. Night falls an hour later.

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 **A/N:** **Disclaimer: The 'OC' in this story is not truly an OC at all, but rather, the interpretation of Dominique Weasley, a minor character from _Harry Potter_ as told by Lena ( current username: .x ). Because of the lack of information or actual screen-novel time, Dominique is treated like an OC on the forum that Lena role plays her - "The Convergence" - and this story is based off the dynamic created there.**

 **For those that aren't a part of "The Convergence" and thus don't have previous knowledge of this dynamic, this an be read as a Pan/OC story. Heavily AU, fantasy-like setting.**


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